A Thousand Years
by iolre
Summary: Sherlock laid on the sofa, fingers steepled underneath his chin. John was sitting in his armchair, chunnering on about something Sherlock wasn't really listening to. He was focused on the tug in his stomach, the hunger that simmered underneath his human form. If Sherlock drank it, he would bind John to him forever. Sherlock refused to do that. For this John wasn't the first John.


A/N: Been wanting to write vampire!Sherlock for a long time. Came up with this. As usual, you can find me at my tumblr (same username as here!).

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Sherlock laid on the sofa, fingers steepled underneath his chin. John was sitting in his armchair, chunnering on about something Sherlock wasn't really listening to. He was focused on the tug in his stomach, the hunger that simmered underneath his human form. The hidden part of him that craved blood, desired the hot richness sliding down his throat. It was an unbeatable thirst. Well, not unbeatable. It could be slaked, but Sherlock refused. The only thing that would soothe the thirst, give him a respite from the burning underneath his skin, was John's blood. If Sherlock drank it, he would bind John to him forever. Sherlock refused to do that, refused to turn John into whatever he was. For this John wasn't the first John.

Sherlock had lived over a thousand years and witnessed countless things that the rest of humanity would never know about. Mycroft had lived longer, cursed in the same way he was. But Mycroft was weak, and had succumbed to his base urges and bound his partner after only three Meetings. Lestrade was a Detective Inspector in this life, and he supplied Sherlock with the cases that distracted him from the raging hunger he felt for his flatmate.

Sherlock rarely lived in one place for long, shifting from place to place when someone became suspicious about his unchanging appearance. It often coincided with the Day, the fatal day in which he had to see the one he was born to love die in front of him. It was never the same, the day that his bonded died. That was a condition of his curse. When he had first been Turned, he had doubted the existence of a bonded. It was a lonely existence, persecuted at every turn.

A few months later the first John came into his life. Sherlock had watched from the shadows, careful to never make contact. There was something in him that had drawn Sherlock out of his isolation, led him to lurking in the slums in order to catch a glimpse of John while out and about. It was primitive times, far different than it was today. That had continued for six years. Six long, torturous years that Sherlock had a love-hate relationship with. He wanted to maintain his distance, for the burning increased in intensity when he got close, but he also wanted to get to know John, to stake him for his own. To bind him to him forever.

Then came the Day. John had been stabbed to death ten feet away, and the blood had ignited something in Sherlock, set off a craving that had haunted him since that day. What he had thought was torture prior did not even come close. Now with John gone, there was nothing to even take the edge off of his thirst. Four painful years later, John had appeared again. The cycle continued, John living longer and longer as the the periods between Johns increased. Then, three years ago, this John had appeared. The dependable ex-military doctor.

Sometimes Sherlock wondered why he had been cursed in this lifetime to be forced to live with the one bound to him. It was the eighth time they had met, and this John was his favorite of them all. Warm and dependable, sweet and caring, John was his protector. Which Sherlock circumvented as often as possible, for he doubted he could stand the sight of John's blood spilled. It was better to bleed and be injured than deal with any of John's injuries. "Sherlock?" John's words broke into Sherlock's thoughts, and the curly-haired man opened his eyes to see the doctor looking at him a bit oddly. There was a fondness underneath his exasperation, something that warmed Sherlock in a different way. "You weren't listening, were you?"

A dismissive wave of his fingers was Sherlock's answer, and he closed his eyes again. The sharp tug pulled again as he felt John move, pulled in a way that chilled Sherlock to the bone. No. No, it couldn't be. John's Day couldn't be soon. He couldn't lose him again. Sitting up, he opened his eyes and saw John watching him, worry cast over his features. At three years, this John would have been the one he had known the least, but time mattered nothing when it came to how well he suited the other person.

It had been four Johns before Sherlock had approached them, had introduced himself. Two more before he had received his first kiss. Although some vampires he had heard of compared the incarnations, Sherlock treated them each as their own individual. The current John was different, and Sherlock liked that. The last one had not put up with Sherlock's experiments, had dismissed him. Even then, it hurt Sherlock nearly more than he could bear to see him sliced down in front of him.

And he was going to have to see it again. See this wonderful John die in front of him, see the life flee from his body. He had a week at most, he estimated. A week to have one last hurrah before his life was thrown into the pit of purgatory until John reappeared again. His mobile beeped, a welcome distraction. A case. Standing up, he tossed on his coat and gestured for John to follow. He could think about the Day later.

The case took four days. Four days of constant hurry, of chases and thinking and deducing and it had been glorious. John had been at his side, strong and dependable, and Sherlock had basked in how lucky he was to have the current incarnation. Few of the Johns were as well-suited as he to do what Sherlock loved, to handle the crime and the chases without batting an eye. Finally the killer had been captured and John and Sherlock were allowed to return home, back to 221B Baker Street.

The adrenaline had surged for both of them, leaving Sherlock even more aware of the hot, pulsating blood pounding through John's veins. All it would take was a few steps, one bite, and it would be over, forever. He would never been parted from John again. They would be bound for all of eternity. But he couldn't do that, couldn't damn John to his eternity. Sherlock wasn't worth it. His thirst would be fulfilled, and it would be delicious, but he refused.

John, however, had another idea. Sherlock turned to see him, see dilated pupils, rapid pulse, and the slight bulge in his trousers. His attention was derailed when John grabbed him and pushed him against the wall. Less than a second later there was a hot mouth on his, lips warm and gently insistent. Sherlock opened his mouth, allowing John's tongue to come in. It was a torrid kiss, one Sherlock felt down to his toes, and he couldn't help but groan into it, one hand going to John's head and the other wrapping about his waist to press him closer.

He twined his fingers in the soft hair on the nape of John's neck, licking into his mouth. Tongues sparred and thrust, and Sherlock moaned as John pressed closer to him, a hardness in his trousers matching the one in Sherlock's. They continued kissing for several, long minutes, before finally John pulled back. Sherlock's eyes were on John's, although he couldn't help the glance down to his neck. All it would take was one bite, one bite and he would have John forever.

No, he reminded himself sternly. No. "Sherlock?" John asked softly, his voice tender and questioning. "You okay?"

Sherlock snorted, drawing himself up. "Of course." He lifted a hand to cup the side of John's face, tender and sweet. That his finger slipped down to touch John's pulse point was a mistake, unintentional in its direction. Then John was kissing him again, kissing down the side of Sherlock's throat and down his chest, farther and farther down until Sherlock felt himself taken into John's mouth. He gasped and his hips bucked forward, seeking more, seeking anything and everything as he finally let go and came into John's willing mouth. Panting, Sherlock collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was facing John. John, who pulled him into a feverish kiss as he finished himself off.

Sherlock's mind had blanked, had shut itself off, and for a few, glorious moments, he forgot who he was. For a few, glorious seconds, he was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, who was deeply in love with Dr. John Watson. Then reality came crashing down and he was an inch away from John's luscious neck, staring at the slightly tanned skin with a hunger born of over a thousand years of deprivation.

Then it was gone, and John was pulling him up, looking dazed but oh so happy. Sherlock couldn't help but smile, even though he knew that the happiness would not last much longer. In just a few days, John would be a body in a box. Then the body would disappear, to be reincarnated into its new form, a new John. Absently Sherlock wondered what the new John would be like, which was odd, considering the current John was leading him to his bedroom.

John stripped him down to his pants and gently pushed him onto the bed before pulling him close. Sherlock allowed the gentle caresses, allowed the spooning, utilising his self-control born of many, many years of practice. He had never done this before, however, never spent time cuddling with the man he loved. It felt odd even thinking that. Sherlock had refused to admit such a thing in the past, but this John made it easy. When he smiled Sherlock's heart did somersaults, and butterflies fluttered in his stomach.

Sleep did not come easy that night, curled up against John though he was. The tug in his stomach was increasing in force, to the point at times Sherlock could barely breathe. He didn't want to lose him, but he couldn't do what he had to to keep him. John would laugh and leave if he tried to explain. No one could love him. As a vampire he was unworthy of anything a human could give.

The next day Lestrade texted Sherlock. There was a case. It was one of the most complex Sherlock had witnessed, made worse by the fact that Sherlock jumped at every sound. The sympathetic glance from Lestrade made him snarl and soured his temper, leaving John struggling to repair the damaged interpersonal relationships Sherlock destroyed in Lestrade's team with little effort. The looks John was shooting Sherlock's way made his heart clench, fondness mixed with adoration with love a current underneath. His heart broke a little more each time John glanced his way. It was soon, and he knew it. More than anything he wanted to make it stop. He wanted to hold onto John a little bit longer. But it was impossible.

It was a chase, a day later. They were on the trail of their prime suspect, and he was armed. John had his gun out and was a half-pace ahead of Sherlock, their feet pounding steadily as they ran. Sherlock's long legs gave him the advantage, but John led because he was the only one armed. His mind was blank, focused solely on what they were doing, the adrenaline surging through his system as they rounded a corner.

One loud noise and Sherlock's body reacted without thinking, shoving John out of the way and taking the bullet that had been meant for him. Doubling over although he felt no pain, Sherlock vomited onto the ground, spilling what little food he had been able to consume. His stomach was roiling, his body convulsing. He had to. There was no choice. He had done the unthinkable, delayed the Day. John was down by him, close enough to see that there were tears streaming down Sherlock's cheeks.

He had no choice. If he did not turn John, John would live in a tortuous middle ground, neither living nor dead. Purgatory. It was unthinkable, something Sherlock refused to comprehend. "John?" Sherlock's voice was broken, and he no longer cared about the suspect getting away. There would be time to catch him later; the time to save John was now. It was a small window. "I'm going to do something, okay? I have to bind you to me forever."

A laugh of disbelief caught in John's throat when he noticed the look on Sherlock's face. Sherlock was not sure what he saw. A mix of self-loathing, hatred, and fear, mingled with the love he felt for the military doctor. "I am not who you think I am. I don't have time to explain. I'm so sorry, John. I'm so sorry." Gently he tilted John's head to the side, marveling at how much John must trust him, for John did not protest, did not move. His only reaction was a small whimper when Sherlock bit into the side of his neck.

Sherlock let out a soft groan as the blood flowed down his throat, and he sucked eagerly at the puncture he had created. He wanted more, wanted more of the delicious nectar that John was giving him. After twenty or so seconds his self-control kicked in and he pulled away, his tongue soothing the hurt as he stood back. John's eyes had unfocused and he seemed to be staring into nothing. The bullet was on the floor now, the blood Sherlock had ingested activating the self-healing powers Sherlock possessed as a vampire and stitching him right up.

It was then that Lestrade caught up, Donovan and the others right behind him. Sherlock saw the DI hand-signal for them to stay back as he approached Sherlock. There was a sympathy to his movements that Sherlock resented, and he gathered John close in his arms like a puppy, ignoring the wide-eyed looks. "I didn't have a choice," he muttered rebelliously. "He missed his Day."

"You saved him, you mean," Lestrade said, his voice just as quiet. Sherlock ignored him, the majority of his attention on the man in his arms. "Go on, get him home. I don't want to see you for a couple days."

Sherlock snarled his response, but picked the limp army doctor up and began walking towards a road he could get a taxi on. He flagged one down and took them back to 221B, where he gently placed John in the bed. Despite his best efforts he could see the creases in the duvet from where they had slept last night, could see the evidence of their time together. They contrasted starkly with the puncture wound in the base of John's neck, where Sherlock had bitten him.

He hated himself for what he had to do. If Sherlock had been able to kill himself, he would have long ago. But he couldn't. He tried drugs and those worked, for a while. Eventually they just stopped working, and if he was honest, being in purgatory between Johns was like being chronically drugged. He no longer had to worry about that, now that he was bound to his John. Tracing a finger down John's jawline, he noted with pleasure that the hunger and thirst he felt had abated slightly. It was still there, but for a moment, it was sated.

John's eyelashes fluttered briefly as he woke, a groan escaping his lips. Sherlock felt an aching sympathy; Lestrade had warned him long ago what the turning felt like. John would be sore for at least the next 24 hours. He was likely to be angry, to feel betrayed. He was likely to shout, to try to leave. He couldn't, of course, bound to Sherlock as he now was. "Hi," John said drowsily, sleepy eyes focused on his - Sherlock settled on partner. That's what John was, whether he wanted to be or not. They were tied to each other.

Sherlock was silent, not certain what to say. He had never had to explain the existence of vampires to a human before. Most denied their existence. "You bit me," John murmured. "I remember that much. You said something about binding?" He looked up at Sherlock, trust coating his features. Sherlock's heart melted.

"I'm a vampire," he said haltingly, barely about to maintain the eye contact John desired. "We - I - you were supposed to die, when you were shot at. I saved you, I took the bullet. I had - I had a few minutes to either turn you, or leave you to purgatory. I couldn't...I couldn't do that." Sherlock shuddered, feeling cold without John close to him. He wanted to hold him, kiss him, anything. He wanted the closeness. "I had to change you. I'm sorry."

"Saves me from having to propose down the line, I guess." John was more awake now, his eyes focused on Sherlock's face. Sherlock's expression twisted in confusion. There was no shouting, no yelling. No anger. All that Lestrade had suggested, Sherlock did not see. "Sherlock, I love you. I have loved you for a long time. I used to dream about you, when I was younger." John shook his head slightly, then patted the bed, gesturing Sherlock over. "You looked the same as you do now, but I looked different sometimes."

"This is the eighth time I have met you," Sherlock admitted. "I - you - I am bound to you, John. And...now that I bit you, I am yours forever."

"So will I live forever?" John inquired, a smile lifting his face as Sherlock came and sat next to him on the bed. The sleepy doctor wrapped an arm about Sherlock's waist and nudged him to lay down. Sherlock did, moving closer when John tugged on him.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. "You're like me now. Except without the blood."

"Oh, good," John murmured, his voice languid with sleep. He pushed up and gently pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "I don't want to leave you."

"Why aren't you mad?" Sherlock blurted. "You're going to live forever, and it's my fault." His anxiety, his anger was getting the better of him, and he fidgeted restlessly on the sheets. John pressed a sweet kiss to his lips, his warmth comforting against Sherlock's body.

"Because I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you." John kissed him again and that was the end of conversation for quite some time. Then John was asleep, pressed up against him.

Sherlock laid with him, fingertips gently brushing over his arm and tracing the skin as John slept. It had gone far better than expected. He loved John, although he could not voice it, and spending his life with someone was understanding and wonderful as the military doctor would not be a bad thing.

"I love you too," he whispered into the sleepy doctor's hair before drifting off to sleep. He could face the day when they woke up. There was much to do (change Sherlock's accounts to match them both), much to face (when would they move? Where would they go?), but they would face it together. Sherlock would not have it any other way.


End file.
